


Fireteam Saber

by BrokenGrasses



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Amnesia, And a number of immature ones too, Comedy, Eventual Romance, I, I'm definitely changing these later, Nobody makes the big secks on page, Past Lives, Plot, Romance, Shyness, To be honest I just write because I like writing characters, mature characters, so expect a very character-driven plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-09-19 21:56:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17009937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrokenGrasses/pseuds/BrokenGrasses
Summary: A person wakes up from apparent death in a post-apocalyptic future as a semi-immortal being known as a Guardian. Their Ghost is not present when he wakes up—a likely unprecedented occurrence—and the cold almost takes their life.I'd tell you more, but that would just ruin the fun. I know the sight says there's only one out of chapter, but I do plan on making more very soon.





	1. Chapter 1

**T** he first thing I remember is light. A singular light, to be specific, and a little one at that. It was a barely white light, tinted with shades of synthetic blue and welcoming beige. I was immediately enraptured by it; it was all that I had in this strange darkness, and it was all I wanted. Seeing this light, basking in its warmth, was almost as if being in love, in a strange way: I knew on an instinctive level that the light and I were meant to be together, meant to be something. I reached a hand out towards that light, but it disappeared just before I could close my fingers around it, fracturing and shattering into a small cloud of stardust, which then became an effulgent canopy of blazing, distant stars. My view widened to take in this brilliant marvel of nature, letting its splendor take the place of the void in my mind.

    It was a beautiful sight. But I wanted the little light back.

    In its absence, I felt something completely different from the warmth it had once given. My body—

_Yes, that's right, I have a body, because I am a human._

    —was enveloped in a soft layer of something I could not see, but was undeniably frigid. I didn't like feeling cold, but upon realizing _why_ I was cold, I felt a sudden surge of warmth within my chest.

 _Snow_. I couldn't say how I knew, but it was winter, and for whatever reason, that made me feel really happy. A sudden urge came over me, like a primitive instinct, to go and enjoy it, to play in the snow. Immediately I sat up and took a look around, my cheeks feeling light and warm, my chest bubbling with the catalyst for joyful laughter. I was in the middle of a rural area, by the looks of it—

_Rural, as in not many people or buildings. How did I know this?_

    The terrain was mostly smooth, with a few curves that could be either large snow banks or extraordinarily small hills. In my immediate vicinity lay long columns and rows of stones, interspersed sparsely with trees. Snow blanketed everything, as far as the eye could see, turning a potentially grim surrounding into a platinum wonderland of crystalline splendor. There were the remains of a few crumbled and decrepit things that might have been houses a couple hundred yards to my left, what looked to be a forest of birch and pine approximately half a kilometer behind me, and rusted fences surrounding the strange place with all the stones.

    I should have known where I was, but that appeared to be strangely vacant from my memory. Strange, how I knew what houses and trees and stones were, how I seemed to have an understanding of at least one language, yet did not have the faintest clue where I was. Hell, I didn't really remember much of _anything_ about myself or the world, beyond the words and their meanings.

    Or perhaps I simply knew only what I could see. It was a strange way of looking at it, but perhaps it would yield some answers, and perhaps give way to questions I hadn't thought of yet. Testing this logic, I looked down at myself. I could not discern much of anything, let alone my word—my _name_ , I think it was called—by observing my form, but I was very slim, and perhaps a little toned—I was healthy, but not quite athletic. My body was clad in a strange garb. On my legs were a pair of black pants woven out of some sturdy synthetic fiber, and brown leather boots that went almost up to my knees, with thick, hard soles made of some shiny black material. I reached out to feel the soles, to test the material, and came to notice that I was wearing gloves—more accurately gauntlets—made of a synthetic, leathery material, with a harder material on the back, and arm guards of silvery metal plate mail. Following my arm up, I saw that there was a navy blue greatcoat tucked into the gauntlets, which was wade of a material that made a sound like the swiping of nylon against denim when I rubbed it.

    It was armor, or perhaps a costume. A knight, perhaps?

    At the thought of the word “knight,” two images flashed through my mind. A soldier of ages long since faded into myth, clad in silver armor, bearing a broadsword and shield. Parallel to this image was a rasping roar, a humanoid figure mostly blurred and cloaked in shadow, a giant blade crashing down; the sickening, wet snapping, crunching sound of a blunt object being driven through human flesh and bone . . . And three golden-green flames, like eyes . . . .

    Dots clouded my vision, and my chest began to heave rapidly. I clambered rapidly backwards, my back slamming against something hard. I spun around, sprung to my feet, and reached for my right hip, without even thinking about doing so, and all too quickly to even process it. My hand closed around empty air, and I suddenly went dead still. My heart thundered like a jackhammer, to the point where I could hear it, to where my heartbeat became _painful_.

     _What the hell was that?_ I thought. Out of nowhere I'd stood and made as if to draw a weapon, despite there being no enemy in sight. And why did my knees feel like they would give out at any moment? Sweat trickled down my face, and for whatever reason I put myself on high alert. What was I so scared of? Why didn't I know that to begin with?

    Thoughts like this began to swirl and fester in my head, a tempestuous whirlwind of fetid frustration and fear. I don't know how much time passed while I stood there, shaking like a kicked dog, alone in a place with no life or sound, save for the wind, before I finally snapped.

    My teeth clattered, but not from the cold. My breathing became slower, ragged, tired. The strength slowly began to leave my body, and I felt myself sinking towards the ground. My balance gave out, and I fell limply to my knees. My hands contorted into stiff claws, shaking, convulsing from the utter . . . _fuckery_ of it all. The confusion, fear, absence of anything or anyone but myself. The lack of memory or sense of self was driving me insane, and there was no one around to help. My clawed hands gouged into the skin of my face, raking warm, sanguine divots into my flesh. Something wet began to trickle from my eyes, and my throat began to constrict as if I was being strangled. I let my hands fall to my side, and soon after slumped back to the ground, resting my face against the dirt.

    I lay there weeping, sobbing, mourning—not for something I had lost, but what I didn't _have_ to lose in the first place. I had nothing, _was_ nothing. Nothing and no one. Just a bundle of meat, breathing for a reason not even itself knew, waiting until the cold took it, so it may return to the dirt upon which it lay.

I would have been more than happy to return to the dark from before that light appeared. I couldn't remember what happened before the dark, or after it, but it seemed preferable to the biting cold, so frigid it felt as if I were on fire. Somehow, I knew submission was not a natural response to this situation. A somehow familiar phrase came to mind.

    Never say die.

     _Well, I'm not going to_ say _it, and I don't want to_ do _it, but I don't really have a choice in the matter._

    At least I would die in my favorite season. Shame, really, that I never got to have any fun in this snow. I closed my eyes and rested my head on my hands, hoping to fall asleep before the cold became too excruciating to allow me a kind death.

 


	2. Chapter 2: Witold's Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short-ish fluff chapter that alludes to the next installment in this story. One which I have deleted and rewritten twice now.
> 
> Carpet.

**W** itold O'Toole  awoke at precisely five thirty AM, sharp, to the sound of a symphony old as music itself. Wit kept his eyes closed, lingering beneath the crisp, cool sheets for a minute longer to see if he couldn't recognize the tune. His Ghost, Lancelot, would wake him up like this each morning, with a song from any time period or genre—although there was an emphasis on classical as of late—and they made a game out of it: Wit would try to guess the song and artist, and Lance would try to stump him. Wit had only recently begun studying  _ classical _ music at the behest of one of his closest friends, Titan and composer Quentin Salvatori—also referred to as the next Mozart or Jack Black.

    Yes. Tenacious D was considered classical in the City age. Witold often wondered if the decades-old Quentin had anything to do with that decision.

    Judging by the slower pace, despite sounding like it should have been quite little bit faster in terms of tempo and overall pace, Wit managed to deduce the name of the artist with ease.

    “Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart,” he stated. “But I don't know the song. Sorry.”

    “How'd you guess,” came the ironically chirpy voice of Lancelot, speaking in a practiced imitation of a British accent. 

    “The pace,” Wit said, “was off. It's supposed to be faster. The reason twentieth, twenty first century, and beyond renditions were slower is because they were played by far larger groups than the original artist intended. In smaller groups, a faster tempo is easier to achieve, whereas an orchestra must work slower to succeed, due to the sheer mass of individuals and the therefore higher odds of one or more people making a mistake.” Witold poked his head out from beneath the covers to look the Ghost in the eye. “Was I right?”

    “You betcha,” Lancelot confirmed, gleefully spinning the eight silver pyramid-like pieces of his shell. The single blue light on the spherical part in its center beamed with pride. “I would expect nothing less from you. Not that I'm pressuring you to be right all the time, however. Just some of the time.” Lancelot wiggled his shell and backpedaled physically and verbally. “That came out wrong. I mean-”

    Witold grinned and gently shoved the Ghost aside. “You try too hard, Lancelot. And you don't need to flatter me: I know my capabilities well enough.”

    “But of course,” Lance said, tipping his shell forwards in a close approximation of a bow. “You want me to make you breakfast?”

    Witold shook his head. “No thanks. I'd rather not have to fight three waves of Hive before I get to eat.”

    “That was one time!” Lancelot snapped, coyly adding in a barely audible mumble, “Okay, one time this week, but still.”

    Witold chuckled. In their five years together, the Ghost had still not gotten any better at picking Hive locks or hacking Golden Age computers, despite having decades of experience doing so even before he found Witold's body in the ruins of an asteroid mining ship just outside the Kuiper Belt. Though it hardly bothered Witold anymore, he still though it was still funny to bug him about it every now and then. 

    Lancelot glided off out the door and, presumably, into the kitchen, against Wit's wishes, and left Wit alone in his room. Witold immediately sprung into action: it was now a race against the clock. He had to shower, brush, and dress before Lancelot could perform the painstaking process of making human food with nothing but transmat systems and his wits—pun intended. He tossed off the sheets and bolted out of bed in nothing but a black tee-shirt and boxers, making a mad dash for the bathroom door at the far end of his medium-sized bedroom. Wit was a very tactful man—hence why the Light must have decided he was to be a Hunter—and he was undressed just a split second before he crossed the threshold to the bathroom. In no time flat, he was in and out of the shower—well,in truth, it was more like five minutes, but Witold thought that was still pretty fast by his standards. 

    He wrapped a towel around his hips and headed back into his bedroom, pausing to check himself out in the mirror. Witold O'Toole was tall—about six feet and small change—and toned, but still quite slim for his gender. His irises were a rare coal-black colour, and his hair was like a field of wild grass the color of polished obsidian. By conventional standards, Witold would be considered “cute,” even “handsome” perhaps.

    Witold, however, couldn't help but feel a little disappointed: for all his amazing features, he still had yet to grow a moustache—his face was as barren as smooth marble. He had intentionally refrained from shaving beneath his nose for five whole years, and yet there was not even the smallest bit of stubble. Wit grunted in dissatisfaction. While there were types who could appreciate a man with a degree of feminine charm, Witold wasn't quite sure he counted himself among them.

    Lancelot would have just finished making the coffee by then, giving Witold precious little time to get dressed. He opened his wooden wardrobe, gauged the amount of time it would take to dress, and sighed. The Hunter chuckled to himself. It seemed Lancelot had won.

    “Fine,” he called out. “You win. I won't try to stop you.”

    A muffled celebratory sound—like a computer booting up blended with a human cheer—came from the kitchen.

    “I'll have my coffee black,” Witold added.

    “One step ahead of you,” Lancelot called back.     

    Witold smiled. He was truly grateful to have a Ghost like Lancelot. See, Guardians are revived by a little machine called a Ghost. While they may vary only slightly in appearance and serve the same function, each Ghost had its own personality. Some were duty-bound stiffs that thought of nothing but battle, while others could be jovial and carefree, wishing for nothing more than peace on Earth and living for relaxed evenings with their Guardian. Guardians’ personalities tended to work well with their Ghosts’, and the dynamic duo of Witold and Lancelot was no exception. Witold strove to be a textbook gentleman, standing for pride, chivalry, and Saturdays on the lawn with the boys. The Witold he showed the world was a bold, charming, independent warrior of the Light. But beneath the facade, he could be anything but independent at times. He got lonely very easily, and didn't take all too well to it. Having an emotionally present Ghost like Lancelot was an absolute godsend: instead of popping in an out of thin air to hack a PC or spout one-liners, Lance acted like the living being he was, interacting with his Guardian like they were the closest of friends—mostly because, in fact, they were.

    Witold slipped into a pair of black undershorts and pulled on a loose cherry-red sweater, the latter bearing an image of the Crucible handler, Lord Shaxx, in all his armored glory, bearing the caption:  YOU COULD ALWAYS THROW MORE  GRENADES SNOWBALLS!!! The sweater went almoy halfway down his thighs, and the sleeves had to be rolled up as not to cover his hands, but it was surprisingly comfortable, and, admittedly, Witold thought he looked damn cute in it. 

    Without any further delay, Witold exited his bedroom to enter the living room. Guardians stationed in the Tower could expect a fairly standard dwelling: usually around fifteen hundred square feet—approximately six hundred forty metres—or so, with simple modern furniture and appliances and a single floor to ceiling glass in the living room. There was a single bedroom in each, a fairly sized living room, a single bathroom, a small guest room, which Witold used as his personal study, and a modest kitchen and dining room in each.  Wit's dwelling was no exception, although over time it had come to feel more lived in over time. He'd long since done away with the default furnishings and appliances, save for the stove, sink, and refrigerator, which could not be changed due to the Tower’s strict guidelines in that regard. 

    Witold threw himself onto the single red couch in the center of the living room and snatched a book off of his coffee table. The coffee table was a fun little piece that he'd found at a bazaar out in the City proper: a square table, the top of which was an oversized chess board. It had a drawer on either side containing the pieces. Witold usually brought it out whenever he needed a melodramatic conversation prop to do basically nothing with while speaking about something presumably important.

    Wit stretched himself across the couch like a cat after a long nap, and crossed his legs at ankles. He flipped open the book— _ Death Masks _ , by Jim Butcher, a pre-Golden Age author of much renown in his time—to the page where he had left off, and continued to read. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a white mug materialize on the coffee table to his left, appearing in a cloud of bluish sparks. Without even thinking about it, his left arm reached out and brought the mug to his lips in one fluid motion. The first sip of that pitch-dark bitter nectar in the morning was always the best. The way it warmed the body right to the core, how its taste promised to revitalize the body and purge it of any fatigue—it truly was something. 

    Lancelot alighted in front of Witold's book, resting contently on Wit's chest. His singular blue eye thinned down to a rectangle and dulled. The Hunter smiled, set down his coffee, and gently scooped the Ghost up in one hand, then placed him on his abdomen. Lance didn't seem to mind: he twisted his shell left and right, gathering up the loose sweater into a sort of cloak and nestling himself inside.

    “I'll get the waffles when they're done,” Lancelot said. “So you won't have to move an inch.”

    Lance was being very nice, today, Witold noted.

_ Too nice _ .

    Wit slammed the book shut, the sound resonating through the apartment like a gunshot in a canyon. 

    “Lancelot!” he exclaimed sharply.

    “Gyaah!” The silver-shelled Ghost rocketed into the air, his eye blinking on and off rapidly in shock. “What?”

    Witold gave his Ghost a glare that could melt glass. “You're being unusually nice today. You're a nice guy and all, but you're going overboard like crates of tea. Which usually means there's something that'll sour my mood. So spill it.”

    “Yeesh,” Lancelot sighed. “Can't hide anything from you now, can I?”

    Witold grinned confidently. “No you can't. I didn't outwit Fikral and his Barons by sheer luck, and you know it. So spill it—I'll end up finding out sooner or later.”

    Lancelot drew in all eight shell pieces as tight as they could go. “So, you know how Zavala recently recommended that you rebuild Fireteam Saber.”

    “It's not broken,” Wit said, “just smaller. In my defense, Saber hasn't ever had a solid roster in its entire history. Well, not since Oryx, but that's more or less the same thing. Continue.”

    “Well, remember how you said the last thing you wanted to do after losing a close friend like Cayde would be to take a kinderguardian under your wing?”

    It dawned on him instantaneously. He shakily set my mug back on the coffee table, them rubbed his forehead with the hand he had freed. 

    “He didn't,” Witold stated as if it were fact. There was no way he would actually pull something like that, Witold thought. Zavala had a tendency to let his position get to his head, but his power trips weren't usually this severe. 

    A deep, slightly metallic voice spoke through Lancelot's secondary speakers.

    “Oh, but I did.”


End file.
